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The younger woman said, “Hi, I’m Doctor Carter. Can you tell me your name?”
“My name?” Weren’t they supposed to know that kind of thing when they admitted people? Wait…a sinking feeling filled my gut.
I didn’t know my name.
“It’s all right,” the older woman said in a soft voice. “Take your time.”
She was the one who’d been in the room before, the nurse who’d been here when I’d woken.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t remember anything.”
“After traumatic brain injury it’s not uncommon….” the doctor said.
She kept talking, but a ringing sounded in my brain, and I didn’t hear her. Traumatic brain injury. How come it couldn’t have been bees? An overwhelming sense of fear and uncertainty twisted through my head as I tried to make sense of this situation that was very much outside of my control.
Everything that we were as people came down to memories, and I had none but a vague sense that someone had done this to me. I was…there was urgency, deception….
The word espionage stood out clearly in my mind.
I was a spy, and someone tried to kill me, and failed, apparently only barely.
The doctor said something about scans, then tapped my foot, gave me a small smile, and exited the room.
I turned to the nurse.
“Do you have any questions?” she asked.
Endless questions. Who was I? And who was trying to kill me?
My hands were shaking. I hated it. I needed to take control.
“Who delivered me to the hospital?” I asked.
She checked my chart. “An ambulance.”
Unhelpful.
“What did I have with me?” I asked. Surely I had identification on me when I was bludgeoned in the skull.
The nurse gestured to the small rolling cart beside the bed.
On top of a pair of dress shoes sat a small pile of folded clothing, with a ragged gray vest on top with fluorescent yellow stripes. It appeared to belong to a crossing guard or construction worker.
Did I steal the vest from someone like that?
Was I both a spy and a thief?
The prospect was overwhelming and sent my head spinning.
“You didn’t have a wallet in your pockets, or a phone. Just that keyring and the name tag on your work vest. It says your name is Tristan,” the nurse said. “Does that sound familiar to you?”
I felt no emotional connection to the name, good or bad. It was simply a name, a name that belonged to the man I was supposed to be. Or the man I stole the vest from.
“No,” I said, feeling numb.
I picked up the key and ran my thumb over the tiny troll keychain attached to it. That felt familiar, and right in my hand. The little naked halfling was missing an ear, and its face was worn away, as if I’d rubbed my thumb over it many times. This felt familiar. It was small, but it was something.
“You’re very fortunate. These types of injuries can be far worse. You didn’t even need brain surgery.” The nurse smiled at me.
